


Keeping Quiet

by Typey



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Public-ish Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Typey/pseuds/Typey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myka isn’t all that enthusiastic about the selection for family movie night at the B&B Helena makes sure she doesn’t care what’s on the tv.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Quiet

Helena leans over the back of the sofa to drape a light blanket across your knees, which you’ve already brought up toward your chin in anticipation of the movie Pete’s loading. Psychological thrillers have never been your thing, and you’re sure that some poor animal is gonna end up hanging from a porch or in someone’s saucepot, but the opportunity to spend time with everyone -- on a night when no pings have drawn any agents into the field or epidemics have kept Vanessa from South Dakota or cryptic messages have demanded Leena’s and Steve’s time in the feng shui garden, when Artie has been lured away from his office -- is a moment you’d never pass up. Not after how long it took to get everyone back where they belong -- alive, healthy, and home.

You don’t actually think Helena believes the blanket will provide any kind of useful mitigation of the stress of the next ninety minutes, but you cherish her thoughtfulness and offer a soft “thanks” as she circles around in front of you, eyeing the space to your right. She gives a distracted smile in return as she shifts Claudia’s discarded hoodie and the couch cushion farthest away from you onto the floor.

The redhead comes into the room from the kitchen with a tray fully loaded with snacks, and Helena motions to the new set-up and gets the attention of the youngest member of your motley family. “Claudia, dear. I thought you might like to sprawl out.” 

“Are you sure?” she asks, looking at the now-disrupted couch. “I mean, that pillow looks mighty nice, but I don’t want you and Myka uncomfortable.”

“Oh, we can make do.”

Helena’s got that lilt that Pete thinks is her being “all superior” and that makes Artie scowl as if his authority is being mocked, but you know it’s nothing she ever really means to direct _at_ anyone else -- it’s the tone of voice she has when she’s simply, utterly, convinced that she can see precisely how things are going to play out.

So watching her settle in right next to you, you’re wondering exactly what plan Helena has in mind for a quiet night in, and why she’s so sure it’s going to work.

And, as observant as ever, she sees you formulating your question and cuts you off with a light kiss, no more than a brush of her lips against yours, and a meaningful gaze before she leans back, tugging a bit at the edge of the blanket to draw it over her legs, and turns to face the television. You’ve now only added more questions to the initial one, and you’re staring at her, potential terrors from the movie nearly forgotten. 

And perhaps that’s really all she’d planned: to have an excuse (as if she needed one) to sit so close to you; to distract you with a kiss and a purposefully unreadable look; to keep your mind occupied with these thoughts instead of desperately processing every possibility of plot twists and scream-inducing surprises.

You feel the corners of your mouth curl up slightly at the thought of her concocting such an obvious ploy to ease you into this movie. Feeling warm and secure, fairly huddled with the person you’ve pledged your heart to, you close your eyes to revel in a kind of serenity that you wouldn’t have been able to imagine as a teenager or young woman or after Sam.

But your eyes open wide as Helena slips her left hand between your hip bone and your thigh. It’s not a necessarily sexual touch on its own, though it _is_ intimate and she’s maddeningly nonchalant about it, but you notice the chill off her skin contrasting with the warmth your drawn-up legs have provided and you shiver. She gives a squeeze, her fingers grasping so very purposefully at the worn denim of your most comfortable jeans. You shift your hips, but you couldn’t say whether it was to move your body away from her touch, so unexpected given the context, or closer to Helena, whose slightest touch invariably makes you want more of it. 

Whose touch invariably makes your head spin with images of sweat-slicked skin and muscles quivering with exertion, of her mouth open, waiting to gasp in a breath or to moan or to scream out your name, her tongue seeking out yours or the base of your throat or your breast or navel. Images of limbs and fingers and locks of hair twined.

Those images flashing behind your widened eyes, you take in the domestic scene around you: the glow of the tv providing just enough light for the other members of your family to find their popcorn and soda.

You _know_ that the blanket hides Helena’s hand, but you can’t help your heart racing at the prospect of someone else seeing, someone else _guessing_ , that right now Helena is gently kneading her fingers very, _very_ close to where your thigh meets the center seam of your jeans, rocking the heel of her palm in a not-quite-rhythmic pattern against your leg, rocking it a bit harder with every push so that the final movement of each pass is a pull back with just the tips of her fingers that very quickly convinces your right knee to fall outward, following the momentum of her hand.

Knowing that you’ve just invited Helena to continue, you still your breath. You’re certain that your only choices right now are to stop your lungs altogether or moan in appreciation of the delicious sensation of Helena’s middle finger gently stroking along the taut muscle of your inner thigh. Moaning is not an option. 

Helena, who has that same damnable lilt even when she whispers, leans close. “Very well done, darling. No noise, no attention. If you are about to give the game away, you will remove my hand. But if you do,” she lifts her hand to hover just above your leg, “neither of us win.”

You nod. She didn’t ask for your agreement, but you give it anyway. Because you want this. No, you want this and _more_.

Her hand slides toward your knee, pressing it down. You willingly open up for her, but the movement draws the fabric of your jeans away from where you need that friction the most, and you can tell that Helena is going to take her time satisfying even that most simple of needs.

She caresses the back of your knee, down your calf, drawing shapeless designs with her fingers, scratching lightly at the texture of the denim. You can feel her short nails running along the minute ridges of the fabric, and the vibration runs up your leg straight to your core; it echoes in your head, much louder to you than the sound of the movie, though you know, you have to believe, that no one else can hear it. Her light scratches become much heavier, and she drags them longer, dropping farther and farther up your thigh.

Your breathing has gotten fast and shallow as her fingers have moved slower and pressed deeper. But you can’t focus at all on regulating your breath and hardly on keeping from vocalizing the moan that is building up inside -- the only thing you can pay attention to is her hand.

The hand that she has removed. You don’t know when you closed your eyes, but you open them in an instant as you turn your head to stare at her in the dark, only just remembering where you are before groaning in dissatisfaction or demanding her to continue, either of which at any volume would have drawn six pairs of eyes.

She doesn’t look at you, but the half smile and wink tell you she knows. She knows that you were lost in your head, lost in the sensations; knows that with only one hand in the dark and not even looking at you, she can overwhelm you. 

The several calming breaths you need prove her point, but you don’t mind. You tip your head back and close your eyes again, confident that she isn’t even half done with you yet. You extend your lower leg just a bit, so it balances in the space between her knees, your right knee nestled between her thighs; she settles her body farther into the space between your torso and your right arm, which she maneuvers over her own shoulders.

You are, even more than before, so open for her, but her hand doesn’t return to your thigh. You can feel her steady breathing, her body lined up against yours, but you want to feel her hands, her skin on yours. 

You imagine that she’s waiting for the moment she needs to start again, a moment when whatever is going on in the movie will cover up her movement or a moment when Pete or Artie or Leena has turned their attention back to the screen. You imagine that she wants to be touching you as much as you want that touch, that she _has_ to hold back for right now, not that she wants to. Oh, but then you imagine her _wanting_ to hold back, because of what it’s doing to you. The racing heart, the twitching muscles in your legs, your ass, your abdomen.

Oh, god.

Your abdomen. Where her right hand has snuck under the hem of your t-shirt. She sets the warm, heavy weight of her hand just above the waist of your jeans. And leaves it there. No kneading, no light scratches. You arch toward it, encouraging her to move it across your belly, up to your breast, down the front of your pants. Anywhere. 

She gives you the quietest tsk and you still immediately.

“Good girl.”

Her breathy whisper rings in your ears, and you flush at the praise -- and flush harder at the implication set by your reaction to it. She tilts her head just far enough to press a kiss to the side of your neck, and you are certain she can feel the heat of rushing blood so near the surface of your skin, skin desperate for more of her lips, her tongue, _her_ skin.

You nod again, hoping she understands that it is the only way you can think of at the moment to let her know you’ll keep still...and quiet.

She kisses your neck once more, lingering this time as her hand starts to wander. She covers your navel with her palm, pressing lightly, and then drags her hand back so that a finger can circle and dip, circle and dip, over and and over. You don’t know how long her tongue has been moving against the skin of your neck and down toward your collarbone, and as your focus shifts to the warm, wet heat of Helena’s mouth you have lost track of the direction of her hand. 

Fingers are sneaking under the edge of your bra, teasing the smooth skin outside and just under the fabric. But she hasn’t brought her hand up to palm your breast, to sweep a thumb across your nipple. She knows how much you love the way her calloused, skilled hands hold your breasts, cradle them as she brings her mouth down and laves them with her tongue; but _you_ know that tonight there will be no sucking along the tender flesh and that you cannot even ask for her to move her hand higher, harder, now. There are rules.

She pulls her head away, and it is all you can do to stop your body from lifting from the couch to follow her. You stay where you are, rooted in position, every ounce of attention on keeping your body -- or your mouth -- from betraying your need to anyone who doesn’t already know how desperate it is.

Helena curls toward you just enough to slip her left arm behind the small of your back, under your shirt. She wraps her left hand around your side, her last two fingers resting on your belt and the touch of the other three searing your skin. Her right hand skims up to cover your breast and offers a brief squeeze that sends hot nerves tingling down your extremities, but it’s gone before you can sigh into it.

She rests her head in the crook of your shoulder, gazing forward, though you know she is no more focused on the lit images on the television than you are. Your right hand wraps in the cotton of her shirt at her shoulder, hers rises to lie along your sternum, the heel of her palm between your breasts.

And she leaves it there. For an eternity. The boundary between hand and breast meaningless as every breath of yours draws the sensation of connection deeper into you.

When she finally moves her hand, you follow it with your mind’s eye -- you can imagine the ink-stained fingers on your flushed skin abounding with goosebumps; her nails only just long enough to leave fleeting tracks of white behind them as they drag across the curve of your breast; your muscles quivering in response to the meandering path she’s mapping, in anticipation of where she’ll explore next.

You know you’ve completely lost the ability to tell how long she’s crept, traced, circled, haunted, teased, promised. She’s matched the patterns of her hand to the rhythm of your breathing -- you inhale deeply and exhale with the last limits of your control so that each breath isn’t a moan. Control you’ve lost elsewhere, as you rock your hips up in search of friction or pressure or any touch at all. Your back arches, encouraging, begging, her to press harder, touch more.

You know the rocking of your body must be driving your knee into her, but she continues her ministrations with no attention to her own need, her own want. 

Just when you’re sure that she will leave _your_ needs unfulfilled for now, her right hand ghosts down your stomach, your abdominal muscles tripping over themselves in electric trembles in its wake. She takes hold of the tail of your belt, slipping it through the loop and angling it upward so she can flip the brass tongue out of the notch; your left hand, which at some point you braced against the arm of the couch, is pulled by that cosmic magnetism always between the two of you to land on top of her left hand, still at your hip.

She pops the button on your jeans and draws down the zipper one tooth at a time. You’re getting lost in the sensation, taking a sharp breath with each catch of metal releasing. She must be done as she swipes two fingers from denim to cotton to the elastic waistband. Helena slides her hand into your panties, teasing through the soft curls over and over, stroking all the way to the edges to run the pads of her fingers along sensitive skin. 

Without warning, she dips her whole hand to cup you, and you know you’re leaving slick trails on her fingers and palm and even along the backs of her knuckles where they rub against the soaked cotton of your panties. She swirls one finger, and then a second, into the pool of hot, wet arousal. Sliding up and down from your entrance to your clit and back, over and over, coating you and priming you, never putting firm enough pressure anywhere for you to get purchase against her hand. You know exactly what this moment sounds like, from countless times she’s made love to you with her fingers, and you’re able to imagine the breathy moans, the mindless words of adoration from her, the “more” and “harder” and “there” and “faster” from you, the sounds of wet skin getting wetter by the moment. You know the aromas of this moment: the lingering scent of her shampoo as you bury your face in her hair; the mingled undertones of your sweat and hers; the redolence of arousal rising from between your bodies to capture all of your attention.

And your body wants to respond as if you’re alone with the freedom to call out, to demand, plead, to give in to the desire desperate to coil and then release every muscle at once.

But you can do none of those things. So you wait for her to plunge two fingers into you, finding, despite your arrangement on the couch, an angle she knows. And she knows how fast to take you right now, so close for so long.

You right arm, hand still fisted in her shirt, curls hard, folding her upper body into yours as you squeeze her left hand while pushing into your hipbone in bruising counterpoint to the rolling of your hips up onto her fingers.

She lets you set a rhythm but holds your hip hard in a reminder that you cannot ride her hand the way you want, the way you know she likes.

And then she sends you crashing over the edge, flexing her hand to force her fingers to curl and the top of her palm to put pressure your clit. She presses and circles her palm and curls her fingers through the orgasm that overwhelms your nerves and lungs and heart. The rhythms of your breathing and circulation are lost among the waves of pleasure.

Moments, minutes, ages later, you’ve stopped pulsating with aftershocks and the welcome lassitude suffusing your body has left you limp, limbs lax. Gasps still echo in your ears and you can only hope they hadn’t come from you, much as you hope that the flashes that lit up everything in your brain weren’t real enough to have made you and Helena visible.

But the blinding light was only behind your eyelids, and as you glance around the room you see everyone else unfolding from their seats. Claudia flips the lights on as she walks back to the kitchen with the popcorn bowl, and Pete scrambles up from where he’d been stretched out on the floor.

He is staring intently at your mouth, and you wonder if the orgasm that just shot through you really did rip a scream from your throat. “Hey, Mykes. Your lip looks irritated. Did you really have to bite it that hard to keep from yelping at the end?”

You touch your mouth gingerly with still-shaking fingers and can’t quite piece together a response as he slows his walk. You’re desperate for him to keep moving, to leave, to leave you alone with Helena, but you can’t manage a retort. You doubt you’ll be able to find words for anything until well after she has slid her fingers out of you; maybe once’s she’s led you to bed and curled up behind you.

But it’s not Helena who steps into the silence and sends Pete on his way; it’s Leena. “Oh, she’s fine, Pete. She was in good hands the whole time with HG.“

You lock eyes with Helena -- mortified at the realization that whatever auras the two of you were exuding must have been as obvious to Leena as moans -- but she simply arches one eyebrow at you and turns her head toward Leena. You brace to be hit with even more embarrassment, and not struggling at all to look apologetic, you make eye contact with her; she winks at you and heads off to the kitchen as Helena offers a positively gleeful laugh.

“So, dear. Shall we go upstairs?” She has left her fingers inside you while she snakes her left hand behind your back and reaches up to grab your right wrist, twining her fingers through yours as she leads you both to slip between your knee and her jeans and presses down into herself. “See how good I’ll be in _your_ hands?”


End file.
